Church's Christmas in the Canyon
by The Fictioner
Summary: RvB  An old one-shot ditty I knocked up back in series 8 of RvB. One sunny day on Installation-04, Church gets the Christmas blues... *Strong language*


Church's Christmas in the Canyon.

It was hard for him to look out at the long, wide canyon that stretched out before him and not smile.

From his perch upon high, Leonard Church could see everything. The caves, the rock clusters, and the Red's base. With a quick zoom of his sniper rifle's scope he could read the warning signs on their Warthog jeep and chortle at the high-definition comedy that was unfolding around it.

It had been about a year or so since Tex… since Tex had gone. He didn't like to think about it much, because it hurt. Even past the thick inches of MJOLNIR armour and his energy shields, his heart still stuttered and squeezed and faltered every time he remembered.

But that was a year ago. This was now, and he could forget all that until later when he would sit in his room and close his eyes. Right now, he had a job to do.

He once again focused in on the little world inside his scope, and a thin grin slid up one side of his pale face as the gruff and crimson-clad Sarge stepped out from under their base's arch and started fumbling around with the crotch section of his armour, before tipping his head back and relaxing his shoulders.

"Oh, please." Church chuckled. He was taking a leak! "This is going to be so easy…"

The pale-blue armoured Spartan settled into a crouch and levelled the small circle of his weapon's reticule on the peeing Sergeant's head. He breathed in, and held it.

_Bam._

The bullet left a white trail as it left the barrel of his long rifle and flew straight and true. Its loud bang, which echoed off the rust-brown canyon walls, startled an odd avian life form out of its nest and caused it to circle through the sky and out of the gulch.

But the shot, for some strange, unknown reason, suddenly jarred to the left and missed the Red's leader by nearly twenty units.

"Fuck!" Church exclaimed. "What.. how.. WHAT THE HELL JUST HAPPENED?"

His shot had been perfect, he knew it. The reticule had even turned red, signifying that his shot was in optimal range of the weapon and would be a confirmed kill. He'd checked wind by looking down at his base's coloured flags. There hadn't been so much as a flutter in the past week. The canyon was totally isolated and still.

The Blue team's acting-captain swore viscously and punched the sniping ledge on which he crouched in frustration. The ancient rock didn't so much as crumble, but his soft flesh impacted on the inside of his gauntlet hard and broke a knuckle.

He couldn't even swear this time. He simply squeezed shut his eyes and held in the yell as long as he could. But it hurt so _bad_ he couldn't –

"AAARRGHH!" He screamed. "Ow! Oh, God, that hurts!"

He couldn't carry on sniping now. Even without his scope he could see that the spot where Sarge had stood was now vacant, presumably because the other-worldly forces that had brought his perfect shot so far off the mark had scared him away and brought Red up to combat readiness. Great.

Besides, he was going to need to get his hand fixed. _I guess I'm just lucky that Doc prefers us than the Reds… _he thought to himself, slinging the sniper rifle over his back and starting to climb down from the ledge.

With his inured hand it took him some while. When he was about ten feet from the bottom he just decided "what the hell" and shimmied down the rest of it. Unfortunately his foot caught on a large pebble and he lost his grip and fell down to the dry canyon floor.

It seemed his typical luck was in order what with the way he landed straight on his ass and all. Standing up with a groan, Church squinted through the harsh sunlight of the Halo's star and peered over the top of the hill he stood on.

_Oh no._

With a roar that would have caused anybody who wasn't secretly an artificial intelligence to mess their pants, the Red team's Warthog soared over his head, nearly grazing his helmet in the process.

"Holy shit!" Church bellowed. However-rudimentary-combat training kicked in, and he threw himself to the dirt floor, covering his head with his hands and tucking into a ball, rolling clear of the heavy vehicle's flight path and coming up in a defensive stance.

The 'Hog's front wheels hit the ground hard, and it bounced violently as the back tires fought for purchase on the rough ground, causing the vehicle to slide round in an arc, a deathly collision with only one destination: Church's face.

Again, something in his mind clicked on, a raw instinct perhaps, or some sort of training. It was almost like… programming. Like he'd always known how to do this. He jumped to side and rolled away from the jeep once more, cleverly evading the chunky vehicle. Unfortunately, the huge machine gun mounted on the back of the Warthog started to spool up, as it's maroon-clad user brought it to bear and bullets started kicking up dirt all around Church.

There was nothing he could do now; he was trapped.

"Hey, Red team!"

The cry came from above, from the roof of Blue base.

_Oh crap_, he thought. _Please don't say it, please don't say –_

"Merry Christmas, assholes!"

_Fuck._

The rocket hit the 'Hog side on, flipping it and sending it into a seemingly endless series of barrel rolls and spins, before gravity suddenly realised it still applied and slammed it into the dirt way over in the middle of the canyon.

It also sent the barrel of it's machine gun flying into Church's hand, smacking it hard as the metal tubes warped the already out of place bones some more, snapping his arm back as the transport rushed past him.

There were no words or screams this time, just a low whimper as he tenderly clutched his broken hand and fell to his knees.

The two other members of his team jogged over to him happily. The teal Spartan, Tucker, passed his rocket launcher to an ecstatic Caboose, the young blue Spartan breaking out into a joyful yodel at the power he now wielded.

"Caboose, shut up!" Tucker snapped at him, turning to his acting-leader. "Yo, Church, what's up?"

The blonde soldier looked down at the hand Church still held and raised his eyebrows.

"Oh. Did… Did I do that? Was that me?"

Church didn't have any words left in him. He just nodded meekly.

"Whoops! Sorry dude. But hey, at least you aren't Swiss cheeses, right?"

The cobalt Spartan whimpered something Tucker couldn't hear. He leaned in closer.

"What's that? Speak up, Church!"

That was it, he snapped.

"I SAID IT'S CHEESE, YOU HALF-WIT!" Church exploded. "IT'S NOT CHEESES, IT'S CHEESE. THERE'S NOT EVEN A PLURAL OF CHEESE, IT'S JUST CHEESE. NEVER, EVER IS IT CHEESES!"

"Whoa, whoa! Okay, man, I'm sorry." Tucker backed away, arms raised in surrender. "What's gotten into you lately? Ain't you feeling the holiday spirit yet?"

Church stared intently at Tucker through his visor. Although he couldn't even see his face, the teal Spartan still felt a great wave of unease wash over him, as if he could almost feel Church's eyes on him.

Finally, Church broke eye contact and started off towards their base.

"No, it's not that." He muttered.

As he sat on the couch a few hours later, his hand neatly bandaged tight by Doc, he thought about what _had_ gotten into him. Maybe it was just him. Maybe he was getting old, or tired of the war…

No. He was young, and hadn't even been fighting that long. But he'd been fighting in the same place for five years now, and maybe, just maybe, he'd become attached to the old place. Like a good woman, he knew it's curves and dips, knew it's moulds and textures just by feeling them with his fingers. The smells and the sounds were just as recognisable to him now.

Recently, they'd gotten their bases updated by Command. Dropships had come in and sent them to fight elsewhere while the construction crews added in new rooms and areas. They now had a proper barracks to sleep in, a designated kitchen and this comfy lounge to rest and recuperate after another of their frequent battles with the reds.

The most important change, though, was the new cellar level under each base. Church didn't know how it operated, but some sort of anti-gravity field acted as a lift back up to the main floor where he sat now. And sitting royally in the cellar was some kind of alien artefact… it looked like an aircraft of some sort. He'd get Caboose to test it out after the Christmas fever died down.

Church was grateful for the additions, but as the bases changed so did his team's attitude. Before, they were always looking for a fight, because they had nothing to do. Now, Tucker spent most of his time in front of the adult channels and Caboose sat in his room belting out Disney's Greatest Hits. His team had either lost their minds, or had just become l-a-z-y.

No, he was just being nostalgic. He was just wanting 'the old days' back, when he'd spend hours chatting and squabbling with Te- with _her_, and they actually had something to fight for. Church felt that their recent alliances with the Reds had upset the natural hate towards each team, and he didn't like it. How could he train if his team were busy exchanging small talk with "Simmons" and "Donut"?

He sat in silence before realising that he was doing what he'd once told Tucker off for. Sitting on the couch, doing nothing with his life. He looked around the room; tinsel outlined the doorways and furniture; baubles hung from the small spruce they'd managed to pull out from the ground and set up in here.

It was Christmas time! And he was stuck in here moping around like some god-forsaken teenager.

With a huff, Church picked himself up from the couch, grabbed his sniper rifle from its place on the weapons rack next to him, and walked out into the harsh sunlight to join his team.


End file.
